Family Honor

Chapter 12

One of the things I had learned about Julie in the time that had passed since freshman year, when we roomed together, was that in her professional life, she was by reputation a good and wise counselor. Her personal self was an hysteric. For reasons having to do probably with my own perversity, I had always liked that about her. The hysteria was on full display at her son Michael’s sixth birthday party, to which Rosie and I had been reluctant invitees. And we were the cream of the crop.

Others included five other children, aged six or less, bundled up because it was really too cold to have an outside party, but Michael had wanted a pony. There were also a couple of mothers, who seemed as hysterical as Julie, a bored pony, and a guy dressed up in a clown suit who was leading the pony around.

We were on Julie’s front lawn in the suburbs. There was a card table set up with a yellow paper table covering taped onto it. The wind kept tearing the flappy edges of it. There was maybe a third of a chocolate birthday cake on the table, and a carton of half-melted vanilla ice cream. Several children, including Michael, were afraid of the pony. Michael was also afraid of the clown.

“Who wants a ride?” Julie said.

The grim cheerfulness she was grinding out made her voice reach registers I didn’t know she had. Rosie was sitting in my lap. She didn’t like small children any more than I did, but she was more genuine about it. A little girl in a pink dress came over and poked her in the ribs. Rosie growled. The little girl went immediately to Julie.

“That dog wants to bite me,” she said.

Julie smiled maniacally.

“Nice doggie,” she said, “Rosie’s a nice doggie.”

“I wish to bite her also,” I said to Julie. “Where’s Michael senior?”

“Off with the other two, this is just Mikey’s day.”

“And a dandy one,” I said.

Julie did something with her lips that might have been a smile, and shook her head quickly. The pony made a deposit on the lawn, and Julie left me to attend to that.

A small boy who had apparently misunderstood the chocolate cake, and given himself a facial with it, came over with the little girl at whom Rosie had growled. The little girl hung back.

“Does that dog bite?” he says.

“Yes.” I said.

“Bad dog,” the boy said.

“She’s neither bad nor good,” I said. “She’s a dog.”

“Huh?”

I could feel the hair stiffen along Rosie’s back. Her taste was impeccable. Julie appeared from the garage with a snow shovel and a plastic bag.

“Oh, look at Michael’s mommy,” I said. “Maybe you could help her shovel.”

Both kids screamed in horror at the idea of shoveling pony poop. But they went on to watch.

The guy in the clown suit said, “Okay, kids, who wants to ride Pepe the pony?”

The kids hung back. One mother attempted to put her son on it, and he kicked and fought her until she gave up. Julie got her pony droppings into her green plastic bag and carried it over to the garage. The guy in the clown suit bent over and spoke to Michael in a voice that was apparently clownspeak.

“How about the birthday boy, he gets the first ride.”

“Don’t do that,” I said.

But I was too late. The guy in the clown suit picked Michael up and plunked him on the animal. Michael was on the pony he feared, having been placed there by the clown he feared more. He screamed. It scared the pony, who bucked, which annoyed Rosie, who barked. I put Rosie down, held her leash in my left hand, stepped sideways toward the pony who was kicking his hind feet lethargically, and scooped Michael off with my right arm. Julie came out of the garage and across the lawn on a dead run. Michael was screaming, crying, and, incidentally, trying to kick me. Rosie was in full bark at the pony now, straining at her leash, thirty-one pounds of barely (and fortunately) restrained ferocity. Julie grabbed Michael away from me, and held him.

“What happened, honey. What happened, Mommy’s here, what happened?”

Michael cried harder, and hung onto his mother. The guy in the clown suit didn’t seem to have a good read on things. He was leaning down speaking in his clown voice to Michael.

“What’s the matter? Is you scared of old Mister Bubbles?”

“Be better if Mister Bubbles stepped back a little,” I said.

Julie focused on me over Michael’s shoulder.

“What happened?”

“Mister Bubbles put Michael on the pony.”

Julie stared at me, hugging Michael, patting his back. Rosie continued to bark at Pepe.

“Mister Bubbles?”

“The clown,” I said.

“He put Michael on the horse?”

“Yes,” I said. “Pepe the pony.”

Julie turned her head slowly toward Mister Bubbles.

“You dumb fuck,” she said.

“Nice language,” Mister Bubbles said, “in front of the children.”

“Fuck the children,” Julie said. “Take your fucking pony, and get the fuck out of here.”

“Hey, lady, you hired me.”

“Out,” she said, her voice soaring, “get the fuck out.”

I got a hand on Mister Bubbles’s arm and led him away. Pepe the pony came with him. He took no notice of Rosie, whose barking had settled into a low steady growl.

“She owe you any money?” I said.

“She got no business talking to me like that,” he said.

“I’m sure Pepe was shocked,” I said. “Have you been paid?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, pardner, then I think it’s time for you and Pepe to mosey on down the trail.”

He wanted to say something cutting, but it’s hard to be cutting when you’re standing around in a rental clown suit, and I think he realized that. He gave it up and took Pepe and headed for his truck.

When I put Rosie in the front seat of my car, and went back to the party, it was over. One of the mothers was explaining to Julie how Michael was just overtired, and everyone had really enjoyed it, and thanks for inviting us. Julie had disentangled Michael enough so that she could stand and say good-bye. He remained wrapped around her leg. There was a gathering of children, a strapping of car seats, a slamming of car doors and in a while it was just Michael and me and Julie. I went to Julie’s garage and got a trash barrel and brought it back and began to clean up the cake and ice cream and paper plates. Julie sat down on one of the folding chairs that tilted clumsily on the uneven lawn and began to cry.

“I don’t blame you,” I said.

The crying turned to sobbing.

“Don’t you hate parties?” I said to Michael.

He stared at me silently.

“I always did,” I said.

“I can’t do it,” Julie said. “I try so goddamned hard and I can’t do it.”

Michael was no longer crying. He was very silent, standing beside his mother.

“Nobody can,” I said. “It’s not your fault, it’s not Michael’s. It’s the way things work.”

“Other people can have a damn party,” Julie said.

“Not many,” I said. “And you might not want to trade the skills you’ve got for the skills that make good party givers.”

“I just wanted him to have a party like other kids.”

Michael was very silent.

“In your enthusiasm for blaming yourself,” I said, “you want to be careful that you don’t spill some blame onto anyone else.”

Julie raised her eyes and looked at me and then looked at Michael. She hugged him to her and talked and sobbed simultaneously.

“I love you, honey,” she gasped, with the tears bubbling through her voice. “Mommy loves you.”

I could see Michael’s face over her shoulder. He didn’t look as if he entirely believed her.